My Lonely City

Sanitarium, or, In Answer to Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me” –

Backwards and forwards in the bathroom mirror,/ Tracing the cracks/ with his fingers, ridges/ running from her eyes,/ the dust drifts thick/ over the frame that keeps him there/ in this cold white place./ The shower door slides, groans, will close/ them in, there are too many/ of him, who hem her in/ watching her/ bleed/ Watching her bleed and clean/ and scrub herself until she smells/ like soap scum on the sink he shares/ with what he doesn’t know